


Cream City

by bloodandcream



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, No Dialogue, Oral Fixation, Sam is a Little Shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 13:54:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8288059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/pseuds/bloodandcream
Summary: Like he said, his little brother is a brat. Sam knows it too, and he knows just how to use it to get what he wants.





	

Sam is a brat and that is a fact of life.

Sam is a brat when their dad is packing up the weapons ready to move on and the kid is excited for a group project or a field trips and doesn’t want to go. He’s a mean brat then, toes digging in, voice cracking with teenage indignation that their dad dare uproot his life. All busy hands and mouth twisted up with anger, and it makes Dean hurt when he has to start shoving all of Sam’s ratty second-hand clothes in a duffel ‘cause the kid won’t do it.

Sam is a brat when he’s having fun too, just to squeeze a little more out of it. When it’s just Dean and him, and Sam’s attitude takes a playful turn for the kind of teasing you might think is the unintentional innocence of youth. But Dean knows better. When Sam is being a brat to goad him on, because Sam knows just how much he can wheedle out of Dean.

Like right now.

An Americana-charm town in Tennessee that hasn’t got much to offer, but there’s an old-school style parlor just off the freeway with a big vintage looking neon sign that you can see from the road advertising for ‘Cream City Ice Cream’. Dean had a little extra cash in his pocket from hustling and John was reconnecting with an old hunter friend elsewhere, so Dean had figured a treat was a nice idea. The joint is the sort of place that plays into tourists, white and black checkered floors, formica tables with chrome edging, shiny vinyl over booths and the stools at the counter. It even sells kitschy souvenirs.

It didn’t take much of Sam’s puppy dog eyes and pouty lips for Dean to buy him something more than a vanilla ice cream come. Sam had wanted one of the shirts, with a logo like the neon sign above the restaurant. Cream City. Yeah, Dean knows why Sam wants the damn t-shirt. They didn’t have a men’s large, so he got a women’s large. Sam smiled sweetly at Dean and told him to place the order for food, then sashayed off to the restroom and came back with the new t-shirt stretched tight across his chest.

It’s white. And thin. The orange and green logo curving across the chest. Cream City.

He’s such a fucking brat.

All Sam wanted was an ice cream cone. Dean’s already got a head start on his cheeseburger while Sam was in the bathroom changing. The waitress makes the cone when he gets out, smiles at him and comments on the shirt. Kid probably should of gone with one size down in the men’s, instead of a women’s large. Women’s clothes are always made high and narrow. On the counter side stool next to Dean, the hem of it rides up. Sam’s narrow, bony hips poking out as the t-shirt stretches across his belly.

Fucking hell, his nipples show through the thin fabric.

Dean’s cheeseburger is forgotten.

Sam smiles sweetly as he makes small talk with the waitress, and once she’s gone he swivels his stool around to face Dean. Scuffed dirt stained converse propped on the footrest of the stool, there are huge holes in the knees of his jeans, the unraveling fabric gone white, and the skin underneath is scabbed from scuffling in the dirt and cheap rugburns.

Sam sits slouched, floppy hair growing out long falling across his forehead, and he takes one long slow lick around the mound of white ice cream on his cone. He watches Dean the whole time. Gets his mouth all shiny with spit as he licks the dripping treat off his lips.

Dean is hard in his jeans.

Like he said, his little brother is a brat. Sam knows it too, and he knows just how to use it to get what he wants.

He doesn’t eat his ice-cream very carefully either. Let’s it drip down the pale skin of his bony wrist. Licks it off there too. Makes sure Dean is paying attention to the curl of his lips around his own skin, the noises he makes sucking it up, the moue of his mouth as he deliberately makes a mess and sets about cleaning it up.

Dean leaves a nice tip, a still mostly full plate, and the nub of a crackly cone still dripping white.

There’s laughter teasing in Sam’s eyes as he slouches in the passenger seat of the Impala, jeans loose sliding down his hips, new t-shirt still creased where it had been folded waiting to be bought riding up Sam’s flat belly.

They don’t make it back to the motel before Dean is pulling off under the shade of an oak overhanging a gravel patch by a corn field. Sam puts on a performance, fucking licks Dean’s dick like a goddam ice cream cone. Makes sure to get it all messy at the end - even though Dean knows the kid likes to swallow it all down greedy just to show off. Sam spills it over his lips and his hands and he blinks up at Dean in the patchwork of sunlight and licks it all up.

There’s a little splash over the shiny ‘Cream City’ logo that he swipes off, sucking his thumb between his lips as he sits up, pops the button of his jeans open, and pouts at Dean.

Dean thinks he has a new favorite t-shirt.


End file.
